Where the Wild Things Are
by zihna
Summary: Long!Plotty!werewolf AU.  In which Reese has turned Finch, neither of them know how to deal with it, and a werewolf starts killing people across the city, bringing the CIA into the mix.  Reese should've stayed in Montana.  Five parts.
1. i

Yep, so this werewolf AU thing? Totally happening. I don't even know, but I figured hey, if I'm going to bring werewolves into this fandom, I'm going to do it _right. _We shall see how it goes. So here, have a werewolf 'verse!

This is the long, plotty AU that I was thinking about earlier, and I finally got it settled into something resembling a plot. There will be five parts total, probably a little longer than this one, and it'll be generally more serious in tone than _Good Dogs, _but Reese and his awkward humor will probably sneak in somehow.

Some backgroud: If you haven't read _Good Dogs, _here's the gist of the story: John Reese is a werewolf, Finch and Carter know, Reese is fiercely protective of his couch and the pack, and he bit Finch to keep him from dying. And we go from there!

Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest, so CBS, you no sue, y/y?

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><p>Where the Wild Things Are<p>

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><p><em>moon night<em>

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><p>Sarah Greene is twenty-six years old. She has a boyfriend, a little brother, and two parents who love her. She has her whole life ahead of her, and it's shaping up to be an important one—already she's involved in some of the most talked-about issues of the day.<p>

Sarah Greene is a lawyer, and she has never seen a werewolf.

She is about to die.

Sarah Greene is human, and so she doesn't see the shadow slip behind her, hear the rattle of claws on concrete. She doesn't smell the old blood or hear a soft, hungry growl.

She doesn't know she's going to die.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls, and others join him in song. Sarah Greene isn't worried. Everyone knows that wolves are penned in on moon nights, so they can't hurt normal people. She doesn't even think to look behind her, at the shadow creeping closer.

Sarah Greene doesn't look around. She doesn't stop, even for a second. She turns down a dim street, typing on her phone (she's late for a date—she thinks her boyfriend might propose), and doesn't hear the excited snarl.

Sarah Greene smiles at her phone and almost makes it across the street.

Then, Sarah Greene is dead.

* * *

><p><em>waning night<em>

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><p><em>That, <em>Finch thinks faintly, stomach rolling, _is a squirrel. _He looks away and flushes the toilet before he can really think about it.

There isn't nearly enough mouthwash in the world to get rid of the taste in Finch's mouth—blood, vomit, and something he's pretty sure is squirrel—but he certainly tries, swishing Listerine around until his tongue burns.

There's still steam clogging up the mirror and Finch wipes it away carefully, studying himself.

He doesn't look any different. Same hair, same eyes, same face and shoulders and hands. He looks human.

His teeth are normal—a little worn down, even. His nails are still bitten down to the quick—a habit he's been trying to break for decades—and his eyes are blue. Human. Normal.

He doesn't look like a werewolf.

He looks like a normal, if very tired, human being.

(Except there's a round, shiny circle scarring his chest, and another on his back. This scar is pink and stretched tight, like it's already a month old. It isn't. And there's another set of scars on his shoulder, puncture wounds in a clean semi-circle. They're just as pink and old-looking as the one on his chest. He got them last night.

The scars are, respectively, a gunshot and a wolf bite.)

Harold Finch is not human, not anymore.

The bite itches. Finch doesn't know if that's normal or if he's having some kind of reaction to the wolf or what, but he doesn't really want to ask Reese. If he's being honest, he doesn't want to even see Reese—or anyone—at all. He wants to crawl into something warm and soft and never move again, or, failing that, stop throwing up bits of squirrel and pretend last night never happened.

So far, if he ignores the full-body ache and the new scars, he can almost—_almost_—pretend that he's human.

That he wasn't shot last night and, in a desperate attempt not to die, told Reese to bite him.

Thankfully, he doesn't remember much after getting shot—blinding stabs of pain, Reese swearing, half-shifted, himself saying _yes, do it, bite me, _and then Reese's fangs closing down on his shoulder.

After that, nothing.

Which is probably for the best, seeing as how he _ate a squirrel _and probably did some other wolfish things he as a human wouldn't be proud of.

_Am I supposed to remember the change? _

Reese seems to. He's a remarkably aware wolf, and he doesn't even need the full moon to change—though Finch doesn't know how or why, because from what he understands, most wolves can only shift once a month and most of them are downright _feral_—so he'd be the one to ask, but, again, Finch really doesn't want to see him right now.

And he's glad he doesn't remember. He, quite frankly, does not want to. He doesn't remember his injury—the one that even now, with werewolf healing coursing through his blood, makes it hard to walk and damn near impossible to turn his head—and he's glad, because then there is no panic, no recurring nightmares and flashbacks, there's only the aftermath, and dealing with it.

_I can deal with this, _Finch thinks, staring at himself in the mirror. He doesn't even have to deal with it right away. The next full moon is in twenty-eight days. That's a month to prepare, to settle into it. He'll pick Reese's knowledge later, prepare, and when the moon comes, he'll be fine.

Harold Finch is good at being fine.

Moving stiffly—he aches all over, good god what did he _do _to himself last night—he dresses, careful of the bite and the healing bullet hole in his chest. From there he limps down the stairs and into the street, where his driver is waiting to whisk him to the library.

Finch doesn't talk to the man, not today. Instead he stares out the window at all the people rushing past. Humans, for the most part, though he's sure there's a wolf or two in there somewhere. He doesn't know yet—the wolf's fabled sense of smell hasn't hit him.

Everything looks the same. The streets, the people, the sun, the colors, all of it looks the _same. _Like he's still human.

It's disconcerting, to say the least.

Finch tries not to think about it.

Instead, he thinks about the Machine, and its newest number. Alejandro Cruz is a thirty-five year old businessman, the VP of Imaginum Health Care, a pharmaceutical company. His number came up this morning, actually, only an hour ago, so whatever danger he's in probably isn't pressing, but, well, _pharmaceutical company. _After the last pharmaceutical company fiasco, Finch is inclined to think all of them are evil and anyone who is connected to them is either in danger of assassination or killing someone.

And besides, working will keep his mind of his new… furry problem.

For the rest of the—painfully long, morning traffic is terrible—ride, Finch keeps himself occupied with Alejandro Cruz's past and financial records. The man has a few speeding tickets and one DUI but no outstanding debts or suspicious money flow, and all in all he looks rather clean. But, again, _pharmaceutical company, _so there has to be a skeleton in some closet somewhere, and Finch _will _find it.

When the car finally does stop, he's compiled a fairly in-depth analysis of Cruz's life, an excellent place for Mr. Reese to start, and he almost feels human—just the right combination of caffeinated, sleep-deprived, and motivated—as he limps up the library's faded steps.

And then he sees Reese sprawled across the couch like he owns the damn thing, watching the news intently, and he almost turns around and walks out the door before the other can notice him.

"Finch," Reese says quietly. Damn. Not sneaking away, then. Of course Reese smelled him. Or heard him. Whatever.

"Mister Reese," Finch says brusquely, going in like he means it, files tucked under his arm. "Watching the news, are we?"

Reese's eyes—unsettling wolfish, even now, when normally it's impossible to even guess that Reese is sometimes four-legged and furry—track him across the room. "You haven't heard?"

Finch frowns. "Heard what?"

"A girl was killed last night," Reese says. "By a wolf."

Finch's throat closes. "Not—" he manages, stomach rolling, thinking of the squirrel—or was it—that he threw up.

"Not by us," Reese reassures him. "We were in Manhattan all night, this woman died in Brooklyn."

"Manhattan? _All _night?"

Reese nods. "She was killed pretty early in the evening too, right after moonrise. You wouldn'tve been able to attack anyone then, you were still shifting."

Finch nods. Again, he's very glad that he doesn't remember. He's not going to have flashbacks of ripping into things, not yet, at least. He can still be fine.

"Will I remember?" he asks, before he can stop himself. "Changing, I mean. Being a wolf."

Reese's eyes soften, become more human, just for a minute. "Yes," he says. "After you get used to it, anyway."

_Used to it, _Finch thinks, and doesn't say anything. He watches the newscast instead.

"_Sarah Greene, a twenty-six year old lawyer, was found killed this morning in what appears to be the first wolf attack in five months. _

"_Miss Greene was walking home from work when she was brutally attacked under the full moon. She was killed almost instantly. Wolf hairs have been found at the scene and all Brooklyn-area werewolves are being rounded up for questioning as we speak—the police will not let such an attack go unpunished. _

"_If you have any information on this attack, a hotline is being set up by the police. Please call the number on your screen. There is a two thousand dollar reward for information leading to the wolf's capture, and please, by careful out there."_

The screen flashes a 1-800 number and a picture of the dead woman's—Sarah Greene's—body, mercifully covered by a sheet. Dark, broad bloodstains seep under the covering and Finch can see one pale, slashed wrist sticking out from underneath, clearly chewed to nearly the bone.

His stomach rolls and he sags, closing his eyes and fighting back the wave of nausea. "Do attacks—" he starts, then has to stop. "Do attacks like that happen often?"

He can't see Reese's face now, half-hidden in shadow. "No. Only a sick wolf attacks people like that."

"And there aren't many sick wolves?"

Reese gives him a flat look. "No."

Finch decides not to ask, and turns away from the screen. "We have a new number," he says.

Reese leans forward, frowning slightly. "Finch," he starts.

"Alejandro Cruz," Finch says, purposely dismissing Reese's concern. Reese's eyes darken and his mouth thins, but he doesn't say anything. He's good at that, not saying anything, and Finch appreciates it right now. "Thirty-five, a business man. Works for the pharmaceutical company Imaginum Health Care as the Vice President of Marketing."

At _pharmaceutical company _Reese curls his lip slightly, teeth gleaming, and Finch almost smiles a bit. It's always nice to see that someone shares in his paranoia.

"He has no convictions, sealed or otherwise, but when he was sixteen he was accused of sexually assaulting a classmate. Charges were dropped and the matter was not pursued. Start there," Finch says, handing over the file.

Reese takes it, pausing for a moment, locking eyes with Finch. That, for some reason, makes him incredibly uncomfortable and somewhere in the back of his mind he hears a very faint, very soft growl.

_The wolf. _

He chooses to ignore it. He has twenty-eight days to ignore it, it's fine.

Reese, of course, notices, but he still doesn't say anything, taking the file and standing up, brushing himself off.

"Try and get some rest," he says. "I'll be fine on my own for a bit. Moon night is tough on you, the first time. You should sleep it off. If you need me, call."

"It gets easier?"

"Much," Reese promises, the same way he'd promised that it wouldn't hurt, to turn, but Finch still limps and aches something terrible so he doesn't put much trust in it.

He offers a tiny little smile anyway and sends the man off after their person of interest. Reese goes (though he hesitates at the door, clearly wanting to say something but not sure if he's welcome to, which he most certainly is not), and Finch is alone again. He paces the length of the library, trying to hear that growl in his head again, but the wolf, if it _was _the wolf, his wolf, is quiet.

Asleep, for now.

_Stay that way, _Finch says sternly. The wolf doesn't respond, not that he thought it would. Does the wolf talk? Does it understand? It's a _wolf _after all, a wild animal. All the articles he can find—and he's found many, starting right after he walked into the library and found a large, territorial werewolf where his partner should've been—say that werewolves can't control themselves, as the wolf.

Wolves are wild. Wolves hunt, and chase, and sometimes kill, as poor Ms. Greene learned. Finch can't help but think _what if it was us who killed her, what if Reese isn't there to stop me? _

Later, Finch will ask some questions, like _how_ and _what_ and _why_? _Can I be controlled? Am I a killer? _

(He does not want to hear the answer to that question, to any of these questions. Is he a killer? If he is a wolf, then yes.)

But now. Now, he just wants to sleep. And stop aching. And forget that last night ever happened, that he pulled a werewolf out of a police station and got himself shot and had said werewolf bite him because Harold Finch is too afraid to die.

He ends up sinking down against the wall, stretching his bad leg out in front of him, rubbing the pained muscles absentmindedly.

_If you could see me now, _he thinks at Nathan, almost wryly. He's very tired, and his stomach seems to have settled somewhat, and the sun, despite the winter cold outside, feels warm on his face.

Finch yawns, he can't help it, and somewhere deep inside his mind, the wolf yawns too. And then, he sleeps.

* * *

><p>There is something terribly comforting about the hunt. Catching the first scent. Following it, learning the prey's habits. Seeing the prey, stalking, hiding in the shadows.<p>

It's mostly just play, usually. Reese eats enough in his human skin to keep the wolf happy, and besides, his wolf tame. Ish. Whatever. Humans aren't fun to hunt-as-prey anyway. They're too stupid, too unobservant.

And they have guns. With, occasionally, silver bullets. The wolf knows this, and therefore generally does _not _want to go hunting-for-kill when humans are involved.

Hunting-for-play, though…

The wolf hums in his chest, perfectly happy.

Reese kind of hates it, right now. He's currently in the middle of the werewolf equivalent of a midlife crisis and the wolf is trying to smother him in contentment.

It is, unfortunately, working. Reese has been with the wolf for so long now that it's hard separating _wolf _from _John _and their emotions get all tangled, which generally makes his anger _angry _and his happiness a fountain of joy, or something, and it's really very annoying, especially when he's feeling one thing and the wolf is feeling another.

The wolf is happy, but right now Reese is very, very… confused. That's a good word for it.

On one hand—or paw, as it may be—he just turned a person. He turned a _human being, _and someone he _knew, _someone the wolf considered pack. (Which might be part of its happiness problem—the wolf sings _pack _now, and he kind of wants to smother it.) Wolves aren't supposed to turn others. It's still called a curse, after all, still technically "illegal."

Being wolf means being collared, _registered, _locked up on moon night and slowly going crazy.

On the other paw—hand, damn it—Finch would've died. Reese smelled all the blood—Finch was bleeding out. The turn saved his life.

The first and second turns were always the wildest, the _strongest, _with the wolf coming in fast and strong. The burst of newborn wolf had been enough to heal Finch's wounds—the new ones, anyway—and save his life.

But he is wolf now. He probably doesn't realize it just yet. His sense of smell hadn't come in, for one, and for two his wolf will be sleeping until after the second shift. Finch is, aside from faster healing and a more finely developed sense of paranoia—not that he needs that, by the way—human. Mostly.

Reese is torn between _I saved a person's life _and _I just turned someone, _and the wolf is torn between fond exasperation at its person and wild, cheerful joy.

_Pack-safe-now, _it says, like he's still a stupid cub. Yeah. He really, really hates it.

The wolf doesn't understand things like morals and laws and human rules—part of the reason Reese is very good at his job, actually—and so doesn't understand his current "confusion."

_Hunt-time, _it tells him, and Reese reluctantly pulls himself out of his thoughts, shaking vigorously to get rid of the pins and needles and the sting of the wind.

Alejandro Cruz is on the move.

_Hunt-time!_

Reese ignores the wolf, slipping into the crowd after Cruz. Even back here he can smell the man—sharp sweat, the Philly Cheesesteak he just had for lunch, just a little hint of ambition—and following him isn't hard even though Cruz isn't tall or all that recognizable.

So far Reese has followed him from work—some fancy corporate office in central Manhattan—to lunch and now back again, it seems. Reese follows him to the building and then, once Cruz is inside and definitely heading to work, turns around and heads towards Cruz's apartment.

The wolf, bored now that there's no actual prey in sight, curls up in the corner of his mind, still smothering his confusion and anger and _guilt_—yes, guilt, he's definitely going to have to take that out of something later—with contentment.

Reese ignores it, as much as he can. Which, after thirty-something years of running around with it, isn't much. Damn thing.

Cruz lives in a very nice apartment building in a very nice neighborhood—typical of the young up-and-coming VP—with a tastefully decorated hallway and a solid, old oak door. Behind the smell of wood, flowers, and Febreeze, though, Reese can smell just the faintest hint of… rot.

His hackles go up, before he can help himself. This close to moon night, even on the waning side, the wolf is up and surging into the front before Reese is even aware of baring his fangs.

_Death-danger-be-safe, _the wolf murmurs. As if Reese needs the warning.

He carefully opens the heavy door, straining for any sign of a threat.

The apartment is empty.

Reese nudges the wolf back down, wiggling his fingers to get rid of his claws. Cruz's apartment is neat, organized, and barely-lived in. The bedroom smells like Febreeze—he _really_ _hates _that stuff—and laundry detergent, not like someone's slept there recently, and there's exactly two packs of ramen noodles and half a carton of orange juice in the fridge.

Alejandro Cruz is clearly a busy man.

Reese wanders the apartment, sniffing at the corners. The wolf is still bristling, wary, but there's no one here to be wary of.

The smell of blood and rot bothers him, though. A neat freak like Cruz wouldn't let anything rot in his home, not even a little mouse. So what is it?

Reese wanders back through the kitchen again, towards the master bedroom. Kitchen's clear of dead animals, and the bedroom is too—even dust bunnies, this guy really _is _anal-retentive—so the bathroom, maybe?

The bathroom door is open and Reese walks in, wrinkling his nose. He hates bathrooms. They always smell strange, no matter how much _Febreeze _someone sprays.

Under the sink and around the toilet is clear. Only the shower is left, and Reese throws back the curtain, half convinced he's not going to find anything.

He stops, and the wolf snarls deeply.

Written on the wall in blood—human blood—are the words _i'm coming for you_.

Below the words, dangling around the faucet, is a single long, sharp tooth on a cord. Reese doesn't have to touch it to know that it's sharp—he has a set of his own, after all.

_Fuck, _Reese thinks, pocketing the wolf's tooth and backing out of the bathroom. _As if I didn't have enough to deal with. _


	2. ii

Hi! So this chapter is a little longer than the last one, and we're diving deep into this AU now. I hope you enjoy!

See the end for some notes on this 'verse!

Disclaimer: POI isn't mine.

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><p>Where the Wild Things Are<p>

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><p><em>third quarter (waning) <em>

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><p>The wolf is really, incredibly, horribly <em>bored. <em>It's been a week. Seven days of watching Alejandro Cruz work, eat lunch at the same deli every day, spend three hours at the same bar every night, and go home to shower and maybe sleep for three hours.

Nothing else has happened. No one's acted on the threat. Reese took the blood off his shower wall almost immediately, gave a sample to Carter, and set up twenty-four hour surveillance on the apartment. He followed Cruz almost constantly, keeping an eye on him and having Fusco do it when he couldn't.

Nothing. Happened.

A week later, Reese is starting to think that the message in blood and the wolf's tooth left in the bathroom were just a prank. Cruz has some friends who'd think that sort of thing was funny, and besides, even a wolf doesn't really have the patience to wait an entire week before attacking.

Reese should know. His wolf is ready to start climbing walls and he's _trained _for this sort of thing.

No one is after Alejandro Cruz. There just can't be—Reese hasn't seen, heard, or smelled anyone or anything suspicious in something like 142 hours of surveillance. Finch hasn't picked up on anything either, though he's hacked, hijacked, and reprogrammed every camera within five city blocks of Cruz's apartment.

No one's after Cruz, and the wolf is howling at him, demanding that he at least shift and chase a car or something.

_Shut up, _Reese mutters. It's the waning quarter, the wolf shouldn't be this wired.

_Hunt-chase-_move, it demands.

He ignores it, focusing instead on Alejandro Cruz. The man gets up at four-thirty every morning, showers, washes his hands, eats ramen noodles, dresses, and then goes to work. He's almost ridiculously rigid about it, too. Alejandro has some serious control issues.

He never strays from pattern. He takes the same route to work every day, at the same time, with the same people. Just like clockwork. This makes it easy to tell if anyone's following him, and as far as Reese can tell, he's the only one.

He's starting to think that Finch's machine messed up. Not that he'd ever tell Finch that, because Finch seems to be of the opinion that the machine is infallible.

Once his wolf comes in, he'll stop thinking like that. Wolves are, as a general rule, pretty self-aware and pragmatic. Everything fails. Everything dies. The wolf knows this better than any human.

Reese's phone rings, startling him out of his thoughts. He drops the binoculars, reads the screen, and smiles. Speak of the devil. "Finch," he says.

"Reese," Finch murmurs. "Good morning. How goes the surveillance?"

"Same as yesterday," Reese says, and he's not entirely successful at keeping the wolf's boredom out of his voice.

"I think we can leave Cruz alone, for now."

"Machine give you a new number?"

"Yes," Finch says, and Reese hears paper rustling in the background. "Talia Mason, a reporter for _The Wall Street Journal. _She's forty-seven, married, and has two sons in college."

"A reporter?" Reese says, and the wolf perks up. Reporters are _always _in over their heads. They can't seem to help it—they attract trouble and enemies like werewolves attract fear and pitchforks. This job, at least, will be more interesting.

"Yes. She works at the main office and lives on Park Avenue—her husband is a Wall Street executive. I'll text you the address."

"I'll have Fusco keep an eye on Cruz," Reese says, already packing his equipment. "Just in case."

"Sounds wise. I'll text you the address."

"Finch, wait—" But it's too late. Finch disconnects the call, leaving Reese annoyed and with a dial tone in his ear.

Stubborn idiot. They haven't talked about the wolf at all since Finch let Reese bite him, and it's getting out of hand. Yes, there's still three whole weeks until the next moon night, but Finch can't keep avoiding it anymore.

He's a werewolf now. He let Reese bite him. He made the choice to not die, and now he has to live with the consequences. Ignoring the problem is the quickest way to ending up moon-crazy, dead, or worse, caught and tagged and kept from running free ever again.

Finch _has _to deal with this. The longer he waits, the more he pushes the wolf down, the wilder it'll be when it comes up again on moon night.

And Finch's wolf is _strong. _

Finch doesn't remember turning last week because he was a newborn and in pain, but Reese remembers. He spent all night at Finch's side, keeping him under control and relatively contained. He's got the scratches—now only very faint lines, but still—to prove it. That wolf is strong, and the longer Finch ignores it, the stronger and wilder it'll get.

The best way to deal with the wolf is to embrace it. Reese has heard all kinds of crazy things people do to keep theirs "under control;" they shove it down, box it in, ignore it during the month. They refuse to listen to it and take care of its needs. They smoke wolfsbane (basically werewolf Xanax) and drink themselves half to death, and then on moon night, they _explode. _

But if you just _be _with the wolf, walk with it, listen to it, let it play every once and a while, well, then being a werewolf wasn't so bad.

Reese doesn't explode on moon nights. He just changes, like he changes any other time.

_Maybe I'm doing it wrong, _he thinks, leaving the empty building and mixing in with traffic. He's never met another wolf like himself, unless he counts the purebreds, which he doesn't because they're just obnoxious, self-righteous assholes.

Most werewolves fight the wolf. Most are ashamed of it. Reese just… isn't. Call it a personality defect or whatever, but he actually kind of likes his wolf, when it's not being an annoying furball.

But, then again, he's been a werewolf since he was eight, so it's not really anything new for him. Most people are bitten as adults and don't take it well.

_Maybe I should give Finch some more time, _Reese thinks, weaving expertly in and out of traffic. The usual mix of smells and sounds makes the wolf twitch, itching underneath his skin, and he ignores it for now. Maybe tonight he'll go run in the park or harass Carter. That's always fun.

Reese cuts across the mass of people, stopping in front of a tall, gleaming building right on the start of Wall Street. According to Finch's text, this is the building where Talia Mason's husband, George, works, and he's just arriving to start his day.

He doesn't look much like a cutthroat Wall Street type, but then again, they rarely do. His wife is with him, interestingly enough, and they talk animatedly despite the early hour.

Talia Mason looks like a reporter. She walks confidently, with the stride of someone who's seen the worst the world has to offer, focused ahead, singular, determined. Her hair is dark brown and she doesn't look like she's had any plastic surgery, though up closer he'll probably see hints of Botox.

Reese falls in behind the couple, watching. Talia takes her husband up to the door, kisses him on the cheek, and then leaves, heading back down the steps to her car and slipping into early morning traffic. Her office isn't far from here—it makes sense that they'd carpool.

George watches her go and then goes inside, presumably up to his office.

Their place will be empty.

Reese turns around and hails a cab, settling into the seat thoughtfully. Wall Street executives and journalists both have a lot of enemies, so whoever was gunning for Talia, if she was the victim, could be her enemies or his.

She could just as easily be the perp, though. Reese has seen enough "front-line reporters" crush anyone in their way to have a healthy distrust, and Talia Mason has all the characteristics of a ruthless, soul-crushing glory hound.

The driver pulls up to the Masons' Park Avenue residence and Reese steps out, breathing in the cold air. It's not hard to get into the apartment, despite the security, and soon he's rifling through their drawers.

The kids don't live here, and haven't for a while—their rooms are stale and smell like dust. The husband is having an affair (unless that is Mrs. Mason's bra, and Reese is pretty sure she's not a double-D) but that's okay, Talia is too, if the stink on the bathroom rug is anything to go by.

There's one gun under the master bed and another in the sugar jar in the kitchen, but neither are clean or smell like they've gone off recently. There are no hidden microphones or cameras; no one is watching the Masons.

Reese doesn't find drugs, sex tapes, or anything that usually causes a murder, so he can rule out Talia and George killing each other. In George's study, there's a sealed report that looks suspicious, and on Talia's desk there's a patchwork of small font and furious red circles. Reese takes both, tucking them into his coat.

Since he's here he might as well stick a few bugs up, and so he does. Maybe later he'll add a camera to the mix, but for now audio will be fine.

On his way out, he catches a glimpse of Talia Mason and a soldier, standing against a brilliant blue sky and harsh sand. Behind them is a frozen explosion, the edges boiling red. She was in Afghanistan, it looks like, or maybe Baghdad during the bombings.

The wolf growls thinly. It's never liked reporters, especially ones overseas. It remembered hot sand and falling bombs, and knew that they were _pain, _not something to print and stick up on a wall.

Reese leaves, closing the door behind him. His skin itches. He still has work to do on the Masons, but the wolf's scratching at the corners of his thoughts, demanding a quick run.

He checks his watch. He's got some time, and besides, he has to see Carter anyway. He makes sure to stow his gear and new information somewhere safe, and kicks off his shoes.

And then, he shifts.

* * *

><p>Finch is quietly panicking. This is a fairly new experience for him, the panic, and he doesn't like it <em>at all<em>, but he can't help it.

He doesn't know what to do.

The greatest number of werewolf suicides occurs between infection and their second moon night. It usually happens right after the new moon—moon-dark, Reese has called it—when the wolf is silent and the gravity of the situation can fully hit the human.

Finch has spent hours online, reading people's—werewolves'—last blog posts or YouTube videos or long, rambling emails to loved ones.

_I won't be a monster, _they say. _I don't want to hurt anyone else. I don't think I can control it. I can't live like this, like I'm a prisoner in my own body. They're taking everything from me. I'm not a monster. I won't be a monster. It's better this way. _

_It's better this way. _

He doesn't know what to do.

He's a werewolf now. That is finally starting to sink in. The two injuries he received last week, the gunshot wound and the bite—are completely healed now, only faint, pale scars where, a hundred and sixty-eight hours ago, he was broken and bleeding. He can smell _things _now, very faint but still. He can tell what a person had for lunch and where they've been. And he can hear heartbeats, if he's close enough, and the mice moving in the library walls.

Harold Finch is no longer human.

He should've talked to Reese last week. Reese will know what to do, how to handle it. Reese won't be panicking because he's _Reese, _he always has a plan or the experience or the cunning to solve his problems.

Finch wonders how long Reese has been a wolf. A long, long time, if his comfort with both shapes is anything to go by. He's a wolf as often as he is human, wandering the city, hunting outside it, or sprawled on the library couch napping.

Reese will know what to do. He has to know what to do.

_I should call him, _Finch thinks, pacing. He can walk a little easier now—the muscles and bones in his back and neck are mending. He's healing. He'll be able to walk like he used to, in a few weeks. He'll be able to run again, and jump again, and, and—

It terrifies him as much as it overjoys him.

And it's because he's wolf that it's happening.

He can hear it now, the wolf. It lives in a quiet corner of his mind, watching, observing. It growls whenever people get to close, snarls thinly when they make eye contact, twitches when they brush against Finch on the street. It hums when he dozes in the sun, barks happily whenever Reese is nearby—annoying, that—and occasionally tries to convince him to chase after small animals and taxis.

It's not strong, not yet. This is the waning moon, which means that its power fades nightly, until the new moon when he is the most human he will ever be. But it's _there, _and he can hear it.

Which, again, leads back to him quietly panicking.

What does one do in this sort of situation? If the statistics are anything to go by, he has about a week before he snaps and kills himself—_it's better this way_—but not all werewolves commit suicide. Reese didn't. If he has Reese around to control his wolf, to keep it from hurting anyone—

But that would involve telling Mr. Reese that he's scared, and if there's one thing Finch _does not do, _it's tell people when he's afraid.

He didn't even tell Nathan and he'd known the man for thirty years. Telling Reese was not an option.

But maybe he could ask for help… A guiding hand—or paw, as the case may be—certainly can't hurt. If he can control the wolf like Reese, he won't have to worry so much. Reese only attacks if he has a reason—he doesn't go around mauling random people.

Yes, that's what he'll do. He'll have Reese teach him to control it. They have another three weeks, and on moon night Finch can always lock himself up somewhere. He can do this. He can be fine, even as a werewolf.

Calmed down somewhat, he goes back to his work. He's still keeping a few mechanical eyes on Alejandro Cruz, because the machine gave him the man's number for a reason. Reese doesn't think there's a threat and Finch himself hasn't seen anything so far, but still, Finch trusts the machine.

Right now, though, he's immersed in the long, storied history of Talia Mason.

She's a reporter, currently working for _The Wall Street Journal. _She has been to several foreign countries, including Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, and Somalia, and recently she exposed a drug cartel operating in a local school district.

_Gang-related threat, maybe? _Finch flags that and keeps digging.

She married her husband George when she was twenty-one, young and just out of college. She filed for divorce once, nineteen years ago, but it never went through. Her two sons are away at college—they're not involved in this.

The husband is a chief executive at a brokerage firm, worth half a billion in stocks alone—Finch flags his bank account for later inspection—and a former lawyer.

All in all, they have so many potential enemies it makes Finch's head spin.

Excellent. This means that he'll be distracted.

Finch quickly loses himself in the information, shifting through bank statements, credit card bills, security footage, and hundreds of online articles. After an hour or so, he rules out the threat coming in from George Mason's side and zeroes in on Talia, particularly on her recent work.

Talia Mason has, in the last three months, published ten major articles, two on the presidential race, one on Mitt Romney, two on current werewolf laws, one on Al Qaeda, and four on a drug ring running drugs through a local school system.

Finch clicks on that one, because drug lords are _always _near the top of his suspect list.

The ring, a small, locally-grown group of thugs, was pushing drugs through schools via poor kids and underpaid teachers. When Mason exposed them, they lost their product and several grand in profits. That's enough to make any gang lord angry, and Finch is willing to be _that _is where the threat will come from.

He'll have Reese look into it immediately.

Finch leans back in his chair, satisfied for now. He'll have cameras online in the Mason apartment shortly, and Reese will no doubt supply him with more information later. The drug ring is their best bet, and Mr. Reese is exceptional at taking care of drug rings.

This number should be an easy one.

_Now for Cruz, _he thinks, going back to Alejandro's file. The man doesn't seem to be in a lot of danger but still, it can't hurt to check on him…

Finch clicks his keys a little harder than he needs to, and punches his fingernails straight through the board.

* * *

><p>Carter really doesn't need this right now. This is, in fact, one of the <em>last <em> things she needs right now, not that that counts for anything.

The entire police force is out in the city streets hunting a rouge werewolf with orders to shoot to kill. Anti-werewolf hysteria is at an all-time high and she, as a cop, is obligated to crack down on any and all mutts she comes across. She has a spray canister loaded with wolfsbane, silver-painted handcuffs, and a clip full of silver bullets on her. She's arrested three wolves already this week.

And there's a werewolf in her apartment.

The door was open when she came home, the edges scratched. A few stray hairs have gotten caught in her carpet, and her couch is clearly dented and slept on.

There's a werewolf in her apartment, and Carter is seriously thinking about shooting him.

"Reese," she says loudly, because he's in here somewhere, she _knows _he is. Unless she pissed off some other wolf this week, in which case she is _screwed. _She'll bet it's Reese, though. Any other wolf would've killed her outside, in an alley or someplace where they could make a quick escape.

"Reese, c'mon, I know you're in here." Carter takes out her gun and, very carefully, sets it on the coffee table.

_Please, please be Reese… _

She sits down on the couch, hands folded, and waits.

She doesn't have to wait long. After a few minutes, there's a heavy sigh and the click of claws on a wooden floor. A long-legged wolf pads around the corner, blinks at her balefully, and hops up on the couch.

She tries to look annoyed, she really does. "Hey, John."

The wolf sighs.

"That bad, huh?"

He gives her a long, suffering look, and this time she does smile because it looks kind of ridiculous on a huge freakin' werewolf's face.

This isn't the first time she's seen Reese as the wolf, but each time she notices something different. This time, Carter focuses on the silvery fur streaking his muzzle and tipping his ears, running down his back and dusting his paws. The rest of him is a dark, strong iron gray. Carter reaches out and gently brushes the fur on his shoulders.

"What's up?"

His bright eyes flick back open and he studies her, head canted.

"Haven't gotten the analysis back on your blood yet," she says, making a guess at why he's here. Usually he'd show up in her squad car or meet her in the back of some diner, so if he's here, it must be important. "These DNA jobs usually take more than a week, even though I put a rush on it."

The wolf nods, leaning into her hand. She inches up towards his ears.

"I finally got Ashley Tanner's brother to talk to me," she continues. Ashley Tanner was the woman who accused Alejandro Cruz of sexual assault twenty years ago, when he was a kid with more money than common sense. She dropped the charges after a few days, then went home and ate a silver bullet. "She was a werewolf."

Reese opens his eyes, ears flattening against his skull. He moves, getting out from under her hand, and disappears into her apartment. A door slams shut, and she waits.

A minute later, John Reese walks out as a man, tugging a shirt over his head. (She rolls her eyes. Of _course _he has clothes in her apartment.) He's human, but his eyes are bright and wolfish.

"Cruz's victim was a wolf?"

Carter nods, standing with him. "Ashely Tanner was seventeen, a grade above Cruz. She was bitten a few months prior to the attack and was isolated in school because of it. According to her statement, Cruz got her by herself, tied her down with his mother's silver rosary, and raped her repeatedly."

"And the police didn't look into it," Reese muttered, in a tone she didn't understand.

She shrugs. "Small town cops," she says. "Cruz's family is rich and the victim was a werewolf. Of course they didn't look into it."

"So she killed herself," Reese growls. He paces. He's angry, she can tell. Hell, she is too and she's not a wolf. There never was a Civil Rights movement for the wolves—things never got better. They're still spit on, kicked around, and locked up. People hate them, and there's nothing they can do about it.

"Yeah," Carter says, instead of _I'm sorry. _"Her little brother, Sam, found her the next morning. Kid's still messed up over it."

Reese lifts his head. "Is he a wolf too?"

"No," she says, reaching for the file. "No, he's human. They had him tested, when his sister died. Why? You think he's the one after Tanner?"

Reese shakes his head. "No, not if he's human. The threat came with a wolf's tooth."

"A werewolf's tooth?"

He nods, pulling a long, sharp fang dangling from a chain out of his pocket. "Too big for a normal wolf's," he explains. "And it's sharper."

Carter takes it from him gingerly, turning it over. "You're sure a werewolf threatened him? The teeth are probably hard to get ahold of, but it's been a week since he was threatened and you haven't seen anybody."

"No," he says, sounding annoyed. "Which makes me think it's not a werewolf, or even a human. I haven't seen _anybody _and I've been on Cruz all week. I'm starting to think that Finch's—"

Carter can't help it. She leans in, hoping to finally, _finally _learn where Reese and his partner get their info, but the man catches himself, changing whatever he was going to say.

"—information was wrong," he finishes, looking pleased with himself.

She glares. "Still not gonna tell me where you get these names, huh?"

He shrugs broadly. "No wolf has the patience to wait a whole week, especially with the moon in waning. It'd make more sense from the wolf's point of view to kill him quickly, while it's still strong, so he doesn't have the chance to notice that he's being hunted."

"He hasn't noticed you," she points out. "Maybe the other guy knows he's not very observant."

Reese grins at her. "I am very good," he says. "Cruz is never gonna see me, unless I let him. Another wolf, though…"

"So, what, you're thinking it's just a prank or something?"

"Could be. He's got the kind of friends who'd think that's funny."

"I thought you said it was human blood on his wall?"

"It smelled human," he says, with another shrug. "But it could be human or pig blood. Both smell pretty much the same."

_Ew, _thinks Carter, wrinkling her nose. "So we're just gonna chalk this up to a prank and let Cruz go?"

"Sort of," says Reese. "There's a new person we're looking in to. Her name is Talia Mason, she's—"

"A reporter, yeah, I've heard of her."

"I've been to her apartment on Park Avenue," Reese says. "There's nothing suspicious in there, and both she and her husband are pretty clean—well, they're both having affairs, but that's nothing new—as far as I can tell. I'll do some more digging, but we need you to check the databases, look for any sealed records."

"I thought databases were your partner's thing."

Reese winces, and her eyebrows go up. That's a new thing. She's seen him _shot _and he hasn't winced. So what's up with his partner? Is he hurt or something? He limps, she knows, but he seems fine otherwise.

Huh. She files that away for later, when there isn't a werewolf who can probably smell the changes in her emotions standing three feet away.

"I have to go," he says. "I'm still going to keep an eye on Cruz, just to be safe. When that blood comes back, call me."

"What, too much work to break into my apartment?"

He grins at her, fangs flashing.

"Hey," she says, before he can disappear. "Be careful, okay? Don't go wandering around as your wolf. We've been given orders to shoot to kill if we see any wolves out and about."

He smiles wider.

"I'm serious, John," she warns. "The city's in an uproar over Sarah Greene's death. Anyone out in wolf shape or outside their designated area is considered a threat."

"I'll be fine, Joss," he says, eyes glittering. "You don't have to worry about me."

"I'm not worried, asshole, it's just," she starts, but before she can finish he's across the room and out the door.

She rolls her eyes. "Figures."

Carter sighs, flipping open her file and wandering into the kitchen. Taylor's coming over tonight. She might as well vacuum before he gets home. She doesn't want him worried, or worse, thinking she's got a werewolf lover.

She manages to (barely) stop herself from banging her head against the wall.

_How did this become my life, _she wonders despairingly, beginning the hunt for the vacuum.

* * *

><p><em>Run-men-guns, <em>the wolf howls, and throws itself forward. Bullets whiz by, _zing-flash-crunch. _Ping off walls. Shower the wolf in dust and dirt.

It runs.

Pain-in-shoulder—it's been shot. Silver clogs its nose. Humans-are-close. Run.

Men scream. Give chase. They can't catch a wolf. Blood drips. Warm-sticky-pain. Keep running.

_This way, _The John urges, pulling the wolf. The wolf goes. It trusts The John. The John doesn't want to die.

Cars-people-screams. The wolf is there and gone, a flash, uncatchable. Screams fade. A single bullet, silver-stinking, shoots past. Crashes into a wall. Safe.

The men aren't fast enough. Human-fear-scent fades, replaced with alley-scent of rat and trash and human-pain. Drops of blood here and there, some human, now some wolf.

_Safe now, _The John says, pushing down. The wolf calms. It is safe. It twists, looking at the silver-bullet-wound. Blood sizzles, poison-black. It licks the wound roughly, ignores the pain. Silver-wounds will kill. Big silver-wounds are dangerous. But this wound is small.

The wolf will live.

_Keep moving, _The John growls. He is wolf too, sometimes, and the wolf listens. The John guides them through the maze-of-city, keeping hidden, keeping safe.

The wolf relaxes, lets The John take some control back. They are safe. They are not in danger.

They lope through the city, following the wolf's instinct and The John's knowledge. It doesn't take long to end up outside a familiar building, and they slip inside.

No one screams because no one sees them. They are a shadow. Invisible. Strong.

They shove open a door after climbing some stairs, and they prowl inside. The air smells stale and like silver and blood. They ache.

They pad into a room, and then, they change.

It takes only a second, the change. Bones crackle, fur disappears, claws and teeth shrink away, and in a moment, the wolf is a man.

"Ouch," Reese mutters, examining the wound. It still sizzles faintly and it hurts like a _bitch, _but he'll live. It's large amounts of silver that kills wolves, or silver too close to the heart. He was shot in the arm and it's a grazing wound anyway. It'll hurt for a couple of days, but it'll heal.

He grabs a pair of pants and a t-shirt from the closet—good thing Alejandro Cruz is about his size—and tugs them on, wincing at the silver wound.

He's glad this place was close by, otherwise he'dve had to limp all the way across Manhattan to get to one of his hiding places. That would've sucked.

_Damn cops, _Reese thinks. He should've listened to Carter, maybe. He didn't think they would _shoot _him in broad daylight, in the middle of a pedestrian zone. That was just crazy. But they did, and now he'll have to be even more careful because the cops will be on the lookout for a big, dark gray wolf with a limp now.

Damn it.

Reese wanders out of Cruz's bedroom, rubbing his wounded arm irritably. It was a rookie mistake, one he hasn't made in years, and he's mostly just pissed that he let himself get shot at.

It won't happen again.

He makes it all the way to the kitchen before he notices the smell.

Silver fucks with a wolf's nose—it's overpowering stuff, even for an older wolf, and it has the tendency to cover up everything else, even the stink of fresh blood.

The wolf snarls, and Reese unhooks his claws.

He turns and pads carefully through the apartment, back to the bedroom and the master bath, where he pushes open the door with one clawed hand.

"Oh shit," he mutters, and the wolf snarls furiously.

Blood soaks the floor, splashes up on the walls, drips of the mirror. Wolf fur is caught in the door hinges and scattered among the pools of sticky red. A hand, bloody and gnawed on, dangles over the edge of the bathtub.

Reese backs out slowly, fur bristling, and swears.

Alejandro Cruz is dead.

* * *

><p>Some brief notes: this particular type of werewolf is based more off the old myths (particularly the Navajo shapeshifter and the French <em>loup garou s<em>tories) than Hollywood's "man-wolf"-that is, a man-shaped, very hairy being. So in wolf form, a werewolf is canid, though they have five-toed paws instead of four-toed. In human form, the werewolf is human, though they have heightened smell, hearing, and stronger fingernails.

Silver is poisonous to werewolves, but only kills them in large quantities or in close proximity to the heart. See the fantastic book _Blood and Chocolate _for more details.

Wolfsbane is a poisonous plant if eaten, but if smoked, has a calming effect on the wolf. See _Being Human _and catnip.

Finally, the wolf is dependent on two things for strength; the lunar cycle and the freedom it has. The wolf is strongest during the full moon, weakest at the new moon. Newborn wolves are also the strongest because of the strength of the "wolf virus". Their bodies haven't had time to adjust yet, so the wolf is mostly unchecked during the first few transformations.

Hope that helps!


	3. iii

Hello again! Thanks so much for all the support! I hope you keep enjoying :)

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Person of Interest.

* * *

><p>Where the Wild Things Are<p>

* * *

><p>A lot of soldiers were bitten, in the early days of the war. The Taliban would do this thing where they recruited werewolves, particularly young ones, from local villages and gave them money for their families.<p>

In return, the wolves would get as close to Army bases as possible and, on the full moon, attack.

The US learned how to deal with it pretty quickly, but not before losing entire camps.

Carter remembers those days. Some of those camps look a lot like this room does now, and she might actually throw up.

Alejandro Cruz has been torn apart.

There's really no other word for it.

Blood splatters across the floor and the walls, dragged from pools and slashed in intricate lines leading from the body to the bathroom door. It looks like the wolf _played _when it was done, and Carter's stomach rolls.

Reese paces, claws in his fingernails. Carter wonders if this bothers him as much as it does her. Probably not, because he's an old wolf and a CIA assassin. Blood, even this much, won't bother him.

"We have to call it in," she says. She doesn't want to. The public is already panicked over Sarah Greene's death, and _this, _a wolf attack outside of the full moon?

"I know," Reese mutters.

"Do you think this is the same werewolf that killed Sarah Greene last week?"

He doesn't answer right away, instead carefully picking his way through the soaked bathroom to get a closer look at Cruz's body.

"Yes," he growls. "It has to be the same wolf."

"You sure?"

"There won't be more than one sick wolf in the city at a time," he says flatly, stepping back. His eyes, normally blue, are flecked with gold.

"A sick wolf?" She's heard that term before, she thinks, but she can't remember—

"One of us who hunts humans."

She frowns again, wrinkling her forehead. "Why only one at a time?"

"The sick are killed," Reese says. She can't read his face between the gold flashes in his eyes, but he's not happy, not at all.

Her stomach rolls again.

"This one doesn't have pack," he continues, pacing again. "If it did, they would've killed him after moon night."

"This is the man you've been watching, right?"

He nods.

"The werewolf warned him before he came," she mutters. It doesn't make sense. "It wanted him to be afraid, to know that it was coming."

Reese shakes his head like a dog trying to rid its ears of water. "The blood from the warning will be Sarah Greene's," he says. "And the wolf took some from Cruz."

"He changed here?"

Reese nods, running his fingers over the bed. "Fur and blood," he mutters. He holds up a few strands of long black fur. "And then he changed again and left by the window."

He's right—the window is shoved open and the sill is gouged, the imprint of claws left forever. Dark, wiry strands of fur are snagged in the window, just like some were left on Sarah Greene's coat.

Reese sticks his head out of the window. "He jumped onto the fire escape, probably ran through the back alley."

"When was Cruz killed?"

Reese's shoulders go tense and he seems to shiver. His fingernails gouge into the windowsill. "If Cruz was in the bathroom, around four-thirty."

"Were you watching?"

Frustration ripples from him in waves. "I'd just left. The wolf would've been _right there_—" A deep, angry snarl escapes from his clenched teeth and she almost takes a step back. She stops herself just in time, though, because John isn't going to hurt her, no matter how angry he is.

He softens. "My wolf hates bad hunts," he explains. "And it hates missing its prey."

Carter thinks back to all the times a suspect has gotten away from her, and how _angry _that makes her. "I can understand that," she says.

He almost smiles.

"This wolf will keep killing until he's caught. Call it in. Have the labs analyze the fur, see if there's any prints left. The wolf had to have taken a container or something with it, for the blood."

Carter nods, taking one last look at the carnage before reaching for her phone.

"Carter," he says. She turns back around. "Will you keep my shoes?"

"Your shoes." It's so out of place _here _that she can't help but laugh a little, and he kicks off his shoes. "Yeah, okay. You gonna try and track him?"

Reese nods. He's shedding his shirt now, and she's surprised to see that there's a fresh, blackened line scarring an arm. He's taken some silver recently.

"Be safe," she says, and he gives her a wide, toothy grin.

"Close your eyes," he says, his own a bright, wolfish amber.

Carter does, and when she opens them again, Reese is across the room in one bound and out the window.

Carter sighs and flips open her phone. "Hello, yeah, this is Detective Carter, I need to report a homicide…"

* * *

><p>Lionel Fusco wakes up with a killer headache and a very large werewolf sitting on his chest.<p>

"_Je_sus Christ," he chokes, throwing his hands up, and the wolf snarls thinly, leaping off his chest and growling to itself.

Fusco sits up. There's a knot the size of his fist sticking out of his forehead and dried blood cracks when he tries to move his face.

Ow, fuck. He'll just sit here for a bit, then.

Once the world stops spinning, he can get a good look at the wolf. He relaxes a little. He knows this wolf, and it probably won't kill him today.

The wolf fixes the detective with bright, fierce amber eyes. It growls.

"Nice of you to show up," Fusco says. "Where were you when I was getting ambushed, huh? You didn't say nothin' about running into crazies with baseball bats. Just some surveillance, you said."

The wolf ignores him, sniffing the bloodied edge of the bat. He sneezes, a snarl lifting his muzzle, and paces in front of Fusco.

"You hunting?" The only times Fusco has seen his 'friend' in wolf shape have been during a hunt, which makes him feel almost bad for the poor guy at the other end of the line, but if the wolf's hunting Mr. Baseball-bat-from-nowhere, well, Fusco can't really feel bad for _that _guy.

His head fucking _hurts. _

"Look, man, I didn't see it comin'. He blindsided me."

The wolf eyes him flatly, and, not for the first time, Fusco wonders if he can smell emotions. It wouldn't surprise him.

The wolf jerks its muzzle upwards, at the high rise and Alejandro Cruz's apartment.

"Aw, hell," Fusco mutters. "Cruz is dead?"

The wolf nods, growling quietly.

Fusco holds up his hands. Isn't there some rule about not making eye contact with wolves? Like it pisses them off, or something? He looks at the wall behind the wolf just to be safe. "I didn't see who got me, I swear," he says. "Think he killed Cruz?"

The wolf barks, which Fusco thinks means yes. Damn it.

"I'll pull security footage, see what I can find," Fusco offers, which the wolf seems to find okay. He gives the detective a look that promises they'll talk later, and then he's gone.

Fusco rubs his head gingerly. He doesn't think he'll stand up just yet, but he squints up at Cruz's apartment.

"Fucking werewolves," he mutters.

* * *

><p>"<em>Police have issued a blanket house arrest on all werewolves today after a second victim was found dead in his apartment a week after the full moon... All wolves are to stay in their homes and wait for the police to check their alibies. Citizens are warned to avoid any and all wolves they see on the streets. If you see a werewolf outside of his or her home, call the police immediately. <em>

"_Citizens are also advised to stay indoors after dark, especially in the Brooklyn area, where Sarah Greene was killed, and Queens, where Alejandro Cruz lived."_

Finch turns off the TV with one quick, awkward jab. He doesn't break the remote, this time, and he drops it before he can.

He paces.

Alejandro Cruz is dead. Finch pulled Reese off of him and now he's _dead_—

Killed by a werewolf, too. The same one who slaughtered Sarah Greene on moon night. The city is in an uproar. It's one thing to lose someone on moon night, but a week later? Werewolves aren't supposed to be able to change past the moon, let alone kill _people_—

In the depths of the library, a door opens and Reese's now-familiar scent—tinged, this time, with something awful and burning that his wolf shies away from—hits Finch's nose.

"Mr. Reese," Finch says quietly, forcing his voice to stay steady and calm.

"Finch."

"I have a problem," Finch says, and shows Reese his hands. He has, instead of normal fingernails, sharp, black wolf claws, and it's kind of causing him to panic.

Reese, however, doesn't seem that concerned. "How long have they been like this?"

"A few hours." Four hours and twenty-eight minutes, to be exact. So far, Finch has broken his keyboard, clawed a hole in the wall, and shredded the only book on lycanthropy he had in the library.

He doesn't know what to do. The claws have gotten worse. When he broke through his keyboard, they were still human-looking, but now they're _not_—

He can't work if he has werewolf claws. He can't read, or go over files, or dial a phone. He can't do _anything_—

The claws are worse than they were four hours ago. It's probably the panic, but Finch just—

"Relax," Reese says, slow and even. Finch doesn't, but the wolf in the corner of his mind does, settling down with a sigh. It suddenly feels _safe _and a whole blur of other things he can't get ahold of, despite Finch's anxiety. "This happens sometimes, especially if you're distracted. What were you doing?"

"Digging through Talia Mason's information," he says.

"That'll do it."

At Finch's raised eyebrow, Reese explains, "you were hunting. The wolf felt that and reacted to it, that's why you have the claws."

"And that happens often?"

"You'll learn to control it," Reese says, in that same low, steady voice. "The wolf reacts to emotions. It feels your anger or your fear or your hunt and it wants to see what's happening, which causes partial changes."

"How do I reverse it?"

"Be calm," says Reese. "Don't fight it. Just relax."

Finch breathes, pulling his clawed hands away. _Easier said than done,_ he thinks. How the hell is he supposed to be _calm _when this is happening to him?

But no. He can do this. Being a werewolf isn't any worse than the aftermath of the accident, is it? At least the wolf doesn't hurt. Much, anyway. (He's been having some pain in his neck, but he can ignore it, if he tries hard enough).

"It's normal," Reese says. "You'll notice other little changes, especially after moon-dark. You get used to them pretty fast."

"And these changes are?"

"Sharper hearing, sense of smell, stronger fingernails. Old injuries, especially bad ones—" here Finch gets a meaningful look—"will heal. You'll start to hear the wolf, too."

Finch closes his eyes briefly. "And what exactly is 'hearing the wolf?'" He already knows, of course. He's heard his own, but Reese doesn't know—

"It—_talks _to you. The longer you live with it, the easier it is to understand. And first you'll just feel it—anger, happiness, the urge to hunt, the need to run." Reese looks away, out the big, dirty windows. "Have you heard yours yet?"

"No," Finch says.

Reese snaps back around, eyes flashing, and he grins widely. His teeth are sharper than any human's should be. "Right. Don't try and smother it."

That is _not _what Finch has heard. All the articles and emails that he's sifted through have said the same thing; block out the wolf, suppress it, don't let it bleed into yourself.

"The more you try and cage it, the harder it fights on moon night," Reese warns. He meets Finch's eyes and the wolf snarls, bristling in the corner of his mind. He flexes his hands instinctively, matching Reese's gaze, and sees a gold-flash of wolf eyes—

Finch looks away, the hairs on the back of his neck sticking straight up.

"_Alejandro Cruz, thirty-five, was found dead in his bathroom today, the victim of a wolf attack_…"

"Do you know what happened to Cruz?"

Reese seems to accept the change of subject, leaning back on his heels with a sigh. "The wolf attacked Fusco before he got Cruz—knocked him out with a baseball bat. It came up the fire escape, through the window, then transformed and killed Cruz. Or something like that. Why the hell didn't we install a camera inside the damn apartment?"

"I have security cameras on all sides," Finch says, already running through his mental list. He hadn't been watching those cameras because he was focused on Mason instead—he thought the threat to Cruz had slackened.

He won't make that mistake again.

"Which side of the building did the wolf come in on?"

"Eastern side, in the back," Reese says.

Finch—gingerly—types a few lines of code into one of his backup keyboards and brings up the feeds. He and Reese lean in, frowning at the grainy quality. It was, unfortunately, still rather dark at four-thirty, but they can see a smudge that is Detective Fusco lurch forward, and a dense shadow—human-shaped, but strangely contorted—dart up several flights of stairs, pause at Alejandro's window, and then disappear inside.

"That'll be the wolf," Reese murmurs, squinting. His eyes flash gold and Finch's wolf hums a growl. His skin itches.

Finch fast-forwards the footage to where the dark misshapen figure leaps out of the window again, lunging on all fours down the ladder, where it hugs the side of the wall, clinging to the shadows before reaching the ground and flying off a computer screen.

Finch rewinds and pauses it, zooming in on the blurry shape. It's a werewolf, it has to be. Black-furred and huge, bigger even than Reese's long-legged wolf. Finch can make out a tail and a pair of ears, and what looks like a massive paw, but it's _off, _somehow.

"Is it possible to be both at once? Wolf and man?" Because that's what this _thing _looks like, a cross between a person and a wolf like the movies.

Reese curls his lip. "Like _The Wolfman? _No, not that I've seen. The best we can do is claws, fangs, and eyes before we go all wolf. The in-between only lasts a second."

This is strangely comforting, because he's been having this nightmare where he gets stuck halfway through the transformation and ends up half-wolf for the rest of his life. It's good to know that he's one or the other, never both at the same time.

But it does not explain their strange murderer.

"_Alejandro Cruz is thought to be the second victim of the werewolf that killed Sarah Greene last week,_" the TV drones. "_Both were working on a—"_

"I'll have Carter look into the blood," Reese was saying, his voice a rumbling growl.

"Shh," Finch hisses, holding up a clawed finger, his ears straining to hear the TV.

"—_which, if passed, would make the cure mandatory for all werewolves_."

"Cure?" Reese stiffens, turning his attention to the TV. "What cure?"

Finch hits a few keys and Alejandro's name and company, Imaginum Health Care, it's _always _the pharmaceutical company, pop up in the Wall Street Journal.

"_New 'Miracle Cure' in development by Imaginum Health Care," _Finch reads aloud. "_The engineers behind this new experimental cure seek to solve the problem of lycanthropy with medicine. A Vice President of Imaginum, Alejandro Cruz, has been campaigning for months to get government funding for this research, and has been in contact with several lawmakers and lawyers to make the pill mandatory_—"

"Sarah Greene," Reese mutters, reading over Finch's shoulder. He points, and sure enough Sarah Greene is in the article, mentioned as the young up-and-comer who was drafting the bill.

"And it's written by Talia Mason."

Finch leans back in his chair, his mind whirling. Mason, Cruz, and Sarah Greene, all connected to the same thing—a new drug for werewolves that would "cure" them over their furry problem.

"Sarah's death must have been unplanned," he says, already up and limping over to his board of faces. "A spur-of-the-moment attack, because her number didn't come up. But the others…"

"He saw the others in the paper and decided to hunt them," Reese finishes. He paces, back and forth, back and forth.

"Which is why their numbers came out of the machine." _A werewolf serial killer_, Finch thinks. He wants to laugh hysterically because this whole thing is like something out of a bad horror story, except he and Reese are the good guys and the wolves never are.

"I'll stick to Mason," Reese says. "She'll be safe for another week at least. It doesn't matter how strong he is, no wolf can turn on moon-dark. He's killing on cycle patterns, so the next kill night will be—"

"The waxing quarter," Finch murmurs.

Reese raises an eyebrow. "Very good, Mr. Finch. Been doing your homework?" He's almost smiling, eyes glittering amusedly.

Finch ignores him, but the corner of his mouth turns up. "Stay on Mrs. Mason, Mr. Reese. I'll see what I can do about this security footage."

"Call me if anything comes up," Reese says, already on his way out the door. "And Finch?"

"Mr. Reese?"

"Remember to breathe."

Finch smiles at that, and looks down at his hands.

The claws are gone.

* * *

><p>Reese crosses the street and casts one last look up at the library. He can't see Finch through the grimy windows, but he knows that his partner is up there. Pacing, probably, worrying his lip, running through a hundred different scenarios in his head.<p>

Reese wonders how that's going, now that Finch has a wolf in there with him.

_Run-hunt-seek, _his own wolf growls. It bristles, claws extended. It _hates _a botched hunt, and this strange werewolf killer sparks something deep and furious inside of it, and inside of Reese too.

_Ours-to-protect, _the wolf tells him.

Reese closes his eyes, ducking inside an abandoned building and, for the third time today, kicks off his shoes.

The wolf hums, singing _blood-hunt-kill. _It remembers the Other's smell—sharp and acidic, like sewer mixed with forest musk. That's a good place to start, the sewers. Dozens of unregistered wolves live around them. There's a good chance he'll find some leads there.

_Ours-to-protect, _the wolf snarls, thinking of Sarah Greene and Cruz and Mason.

_Ours, _Reese agrees, and shifts again.

* * *

><p><em>moon-dark <em>

* * *

><p><em>This, <em>Finch thinks, _is horrible. _

Moon-night makes him want to die. The wolf is completely asleep—moon-dreaming, Reese had said—and with it, the sense of smell, the hearing, and even the muted ache of bone-deep healing is just _gone. _

After living with them for two weeks, the loss is like a punch to the face.

To make it worse, he just wants to _sleep. _The part of him that's tied to his wolf is exhausted, and he can't help but itch to lie down on the couch—not Reese's couch, but his own—and close his eyes for a while.

He has been running surveillance almost non-stop for the past seven days.

Ever since they made the connection, Reese has been on Talia Mason almost constantly and Finch has hard-wired every appliance in her house to his own personal system.

He can see just about everything in the Masons' Park Avenue apartment.

Reese put in motion sensors on all their windows and a bug in every room, and with all of that, the Masons are probably one of the safest families in New York City.

But despite all this, Finch is still braced for Talia Mason's death.

She spends too much time out in the unprotected open. She and her husband George like long walks in the park, and that is where the wolf will get her, when it finally strikes.

But it will not attack tonight. Finch had been skeptical, at first, when Reese told him that moon-dark made it nearly impossible for a werewolf to do _anything, _but right now Finch is too tired to move across the room, let alone shift and go running around the city.

He feels bad for Mr. Reese. He'd never known that moon-dark had such an effect. Otherwise he would've—

Well. He wouldn'tve done anything, really. The numbers never stop coming; the machine doesn't care if it's moon-dark, and neither do criminals.

Besides, Reese seems okay. He's been a wolf a long time, he'd said once. He's probably used to it by now.

Finch shakes his head, trying to get rid of the sleepy fog that clouds his mind.

He has work to do, feeds to watch over, Reese to keep in touch with….

He's asleep before he even realizes what's happening.

* * *

><p><em>This is nice, <em>Reese thinks, enjoying the cool air as he shambles down the street after Talia and George Mason. The air is sweet and crisp and the night brightly-lit, though he misses the moon and her gentle light.

He doesn't mind moon-dark, all that much, but he misses the wolf when it's gone.

A sharpened sense of smell would be useful, right about now. It isn't terribly hard to keep an eye on the Masons, but still, having the wolf to back him up is always reassuring.

The Masons turn, leaning into each other, laughing. They're cute if you don't know them. Reese, unfortunately, knows them.

George Mason is a hard, demanding employer, slow with praise and quick with criticism and threats. Talia Mason is a cutthroat reporter. They're the kind of people Reese would hate, if he was still back in the service.

He's not in the service, though, and the Masons aren't too bad. He doesn't want them to die, or anything, and so he follows a good distance behind, keeping a wary eye out for any dangers.

They turn into Central Park, still leaning on each other.

Reese follows. He likes the Park. He'd come a lot, before Finch, whenever he wasn't too drunk to hold down a wolf shape. For such a popular place isn't not really policed well, and his wolf had gotten a kick out of needling the animals in the Zoo.

The Masons weave through the ground, completely unaware that Reese is following them, and he watches them through half-lidded eyes.

This is nice. A calm hunt, for now anyway. He's still pissed over the whole Cruz thing, and attacking Sarah Greene. He'll get this wolf, though. He never misses a hunt.

_Soon, _he tells his sleeping wolf, and keeps after the Masons.

They slip down a narrower path, and he frowns. It's always harder to tail someone down an empty trail—can't hide in a crowd, and he rolls his eyes and reluctantly follows—

A high-pitched, terrified scream splits the air, and the hair on his neck stiffens.

He catches the faintest stink of sewer and forest.

"_Shit_," he swears, shooting forward after the Masons, and he bursts into the smaller path—

A huge dark shape crouched over Talia bolts, and he sees a tail vanish into the undergrowth. Others on the path are panicking, running away from the Masons. George is down but struggling up, his face gashed, but Talia isn't moving—

Reese stares off after the thing and swears again, crouching at Talia's side.

She gurgles at him, eyes surprised, her throat a torn, gaping mess.

Even though he knows it's pointless, he presses his hands to her shredded throat, the blood spilling up warm beneath his fingers.

"Talia," George chokes, "Talia, Talia—"

A police officer charges through, screaming for back up into his walkie talkie, and people start crowding around now, drawn by Talia's scream.

"I'm sorry," Reese says, holding Talia's throat together.

She meets his eyes, trying to breathe, blood flecking her lips.

And then, she dies.

* * *

><p>Mark Snow is waiting by the window, watching New York move below him when they hand him the phone.<p>

He checks the caller ID and smiles. "Hello?"

"_Agent Snow,_" the Director of the CIA says shortly. "_I understand John Reese is active in the city again._"

"Define active, sir," Snow says politely. He knows what it means, of course, but in situations like these it always helps to have clearly-defined boundaries.

"_He's killing people,_" the Director growls. "_In wolf shape. The city is panicking, Snow. There hasn't been this much anti-wolf fear since the '60s."_

_"_How would you like me to handle it, sir?"

"_Take him out. You have unlimited access to his files."_

"Authorization to use deadly force?"

"_Granted. Take him out, Snow. I'd rather you get him alive, but if there's no other option..._"

Snow smiled to himself, wicked and wolf-like. "I understand."


End file.
